


Boys of Summer

by snowhite_dahlia



Series: Summer Nights [2]
Category: Cats (2019), Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Boys Kissing, But it's there, Dancing, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Just a Couple of Idiots, M/M, The Victeazer is background, Trying to work it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23898256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowhite_dahlia/pseuds/snowhite_dahlia
Summary: Munkustrap invites Mistoffelees over for a friendly hang out, but Mistoffelees is nervous. Because Mistoffelees is always a little nervous, especially around Munk, and especially when Munk does that little thing where he licks his bottom lip. But this is going to go fine, right? Right.
Relationships: Mr. Mistoffelees/Munkustrap, Rumpleteazer/Victoria (Cats)
Series: Summer Nights [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722505
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistoffLikeKristoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistoffLikeKristoff/gifts).



> In my Victeazer fic, "Hot Girl Summer," there's a little thread of Munkoffelees in the background, mostly because Misto is my BOY and it is physically impossible for me to just leave him hanging. After posting it, I had some requests to fully flesh out the Munkoffelees, so I thought, "what the heck, I'll make a little series." So, if you are more of a Victeazer, pop over to the other fic in this collection. But, if you are more Munkoffelees, then stay right here. OR get the best of both worlds and read both parts! Either way, enjoy!

_You should come over. It’s been a while._

It had been a while. And Mistoffelees wasn’t sure why, exactly. Well, he had a sort of vague, amorphous idea of why, but it was never anything he had put into words. And Munkustrap had certainly never said anything, so it seemed best to simply maintain their status quo, business as usual, so on and so forth.

And that mostly worked. But even unspoken, there was always _something_ there. Something large and undefinable, a distance, a gulf. And it wasn’t empty, it was brimming with something so palpable that some days Misto was sure he could reach out and touch it, and maybe if he did, it would bridge something. _Connect_ something.

But he never did. And Munk never did either. So, they both continued on in their routine of overly polite nods and respectable distances and quick smiles.

That is, until Victoria showed up. She’d been a catalyst in a variety of ways, some passive, but some very much active.

She’d materialized at the cafe one day, seeking some shelter, drenched from the rain, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She was out of money, out of friends, out of options. He and Munk had moved towards her in tandem, offering what help they could. Misto had introduced her into their tight-knit little tribe, the artists and performers who called the Jellicle Cafe a sort of home and called each other a sort of family. And most everyone had welcomed her with open arms, but of course they did. Who wasn’t charmed by Victoria with her warm, chocolate eyes and sweet, infectious laugh?

But it was Munkustrap who had taken her in, given her a place to live, and that had sparked something, at least in Misto. He didn’t want to admit that it might be jealousy, because that felt like a rather ugly emotion and he was loath to muddy this new dynamic that the three of them suddenly found themselves in. He and Munk had sort of unspokenly assumed the mantle of looking after Victoria, an act that had, inadvertently and after all this time, brought them closer together.

_Save your worries for Munk_ , Victoria had told Misto. _He needs someone to look after him and I’m sure he wishes it was you_. 

Misto had replayed those words in his head over and over and over again. At the time, he’d been too startled to make any sort of reply beyond perhaps a nervous squeak. He and Munk had never acknowledged it, nor had any of the other Jellicles. There’d been one time when Cassandra had passed a weighted look between them, before rolling her eyes and sauntering away. But to be fair, Cassandra rolled her eyes at Munk a lot.

So, Victoria had been the first one to actually voice it, to verbally acknowledge the nebulous… _this_. For better or for worse.

And as he clutched the brown paper bag to his chest, full of the delicate clinking of glass bottles of cider, Misto hoped it was for the better.

Looking up, Mistoffelees suddenly found himself under the faded red awning that sheltered the entrance to Munk’s building. He’d been so lost in thought he’d hardly been aware of the walk over here and now, an anxiety fluttered in his stomach.

It _had_ been a while since he’d been here, back when he was just a wide-eyed kid who’d come to London for a shot at something better. But he hadn’t been prepared for life in the big city and soon found himself trying to survive on the street, performing magic tricks in the park for a couple quid. And just when things were at their bleakest, Munk had appeared, so handsome in his grey overcoat, and taken Misto in. Because that’s just what Munk did.

And so they lived, side by side—in separate bedrooms of course, because Munk was always very insistent about Misto having his own space, his own boundaries to set as Misto saw fit. And although Munk was never anything but a gentleman, there was always, inexplicably, something _there_.

Mistoffelees hadn’t exactly wanted to move out, but the agreement had always been that it was “temporary,” until Misto could get on his feet. And he’d done well, saving up the money he earned working at the cafe, so when Cass and Demeter were looking for a third roommate, it seemed only natural to take them up on their offer.

But if Misto was being honest with himself, like really _super_ honest, he’d sort of hoped that Munk would ask him to stay. But he hadn’t and, well, that had been that.

Things were different now, though, an encouraging thought which Misto repeated to himself over and over as he climbed up the stairs to Munk’s top-floor apartment. As he’d already acknowledged, Victoria had shifted things between them. Whenever she was present, the atmosphere around them was a little more relaxed, the tension of the vague _this_ -ness slightly dissipated. So, as nervous as he might be to return to this old haunt of memories, Mistoffelees tried his best to think of all the laughs and smiles the three of them shared during their shifts together at the coffee shop.

This would be fine. It would definitely be fine. They’d all sit in Munk’s living room, have a few drinks, have a few laughs, and then when it was getting late, Misto would thank them for the fun evening and scoot off home. Yes, this would definitely be _fine_.

Taking a deep breath, Mistoffelees raised his hand and knocked on Munk’s front door.

Inside, he heard a muffled acknowledgement, followed by a brief flurry of activity and then suddenly Victoria’s bright face appeared from behind the door, eyes shining and all smiles.

That is, until she wasn’t.

“Mistoffelees?”

A sweat immediately broke out across the back of Misto’s neck. Clearly Victoria had been expecting _someone_ at the door, but he got the distinct impression that someone wasn’t him. Oh god, had he come on the wrong night? He’d like, _triple-checked_ the text from Munk, but still—

“H-hey,” he greeted her, shifting the bag in his arms and bringing up his hand in an awkward wave. Well, there was no dancing around it. “I take it you were expecting someone else?”

“Sorry—um, yeah. I—” she hesitated a moment, her fingers gripping the edge of the door. “I have a date.”

“A date?” _A date?!_ “With who?”

As if on cue, Misto felt an impossibly strong hand clap onto his shoulder from behind. “What up, Boy-Toy,” Oh god, that _voice_ —

Turning, Misto found himself face to face with none other than Rumpleteazer, all easy confidence and cheshire grin. “I thought that was you on the stairs,” she laughed, giving him a little shake.

“Wait,” Victoria interrupted, suddenly connecting dots of her own as she looked back at Mistoffelees. “Then what are _you_ doing here?”

Misto’s mouth gaped open. He desperately wanted to produce an explanation—heck, a _sound_ —but his mind was spinning through anxious thought after anxious thought so quickly that he’d all but fallen mute.

But then Munkustrap came around the corner into the entry. “Hey, Misto,” acknowledged Munk warmly. “You said you were going out tonight, right, Victoria?”

Mistoffelees swallowed, the paper of the bag crinkling under his hand. _Oh, no._

For a brief moment, Victoria leveled a look at Misto, head cocked, one eyebrow raised, a Teazer-esque grin spreading across her face, until Munk started connecting _his_ dots. “Wait, is _this_ who you’re going out with—?”

And then suddenly Teazer was simultaneously pulling Victoria out of the apartment and pushing Mistoffelees into it, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving him and Munk alone.

Alone. _Alone_ . Oh, _god_ . Misto had not been prepared for this. He’d thought, he’d _assumed_ —

“Well!” Misto trilled, hoping the smile he was currently plastering across his face looked like an actual smile and not the grimace it felt like. “That was—interesting.”

“Did you know about this?” asked Munk, gesturing towards the door and the fading sound of Victoria and Teazer’s laughter.

Misto awkwardly hunched his shoulders. “Sort of?”

Munk sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I imagine this is partially my fault—I did _explicitly_ tell Victoria to stay away from her, so this shouldn’t really be a shock, should it? Anyway, come in, come in—” he said, hurrying forward to unburden Misto’s arms.

Misto relinquished the cider with regret, as he was now unsure of what to do with his hands. Hopelessly, he shoved them into his front pockets and made his way into Munk’s apartment proper. It hadn’t changed much since his time there, perhaps a different throw on the couch, a few new photos added to the walls, a slightly bigger pile of mail stacked on the side table by the door. Misto’s first impression of the little two bedroom flat had been that it struck him as what an actual adult’s apartment must look like: warm and nice and inviting without any egg crates for furniture. It was an impression that still held true.

“These look good,” appraised Munk, as he pulled the bottles from their now very wrinkled bag. He was dressed relatively casual: an airy, heather gray tank paired with distressed jeans. It was rare to see Munkustrap so… un-buttoned, as compared to his normal uniform at the cafe of collared shirts and chinos. Misto briefly glanced down at his own attire—black jeans, his favorite white sneakers, and a black graphic tee that he had agonized over for a good half hour—and wondered if he was overdressed. Or underdressed? 

“Yeah, um—” Misto briefly squeezed his eyes shut, trying to re-focus on the very complex task of making conversation. “Coricopat’s cousin owns that orchard up north? They’re from there.”

Munkustrap nodded his approval, twisting the caps off a pair of bottles before passing one to Misto, who took it desperately. “Cheers,” he toasted warmly, a smile alighting across his boyish features. God, he was so _pretty_.

“I, ah—I didn’t realize Victoria wouldn’t be joining us,” observed Misto in his best attempt at a casual tone, before taking a very hefty swig of cider.

“Oh—” began Munk nonchalantly, leaning against his breakfast bar, about to take his own drink. And then, his eyes went wide with understanding. “ _Oh._ ”

The tension that had always quietly oscillated between them suddenly jolted from a low frequency hum to an electric buzz and for a moment they were both silent, eyes casting to the floor, to the wall, to the ceiling.

“I’m sorry, if you don’t feel comfortable—” offered Munk, but Misto frantically waved his hand.

“No, no! I’m sorry, I guess—I misunderstood—”

“We don’t have to—”

“It’s fine, really,” promised Misto, punctuating it with a little simper. “It’s not like we need a chaperone, right?”

Munk laughed, rubbing at the back of his neck, his shoulders relaxing just a hair. “Right.”

“So,” quipped Misto, trying to push past his awkwardness. “The place still looks nice.”

Munk made a little hum of gratitude. “I repainted everything a few months ago. It was starting to look a little dull.”

Misto nodded, absently spinning his cider in his hands. And once again, silence.

Inside, Misto felt his stomach tighten. Had this been a mistake? Should he have just maintained their constant holding pattern? It wasn’t ideal, surely—the embarrassed glances, the nervous laughs—but at least it meant they could exist in the same space, work alongside one another, continue moving in the same orbit. Surely it was better to have Munk at arm’s length than not have him at all?

It was just—Misto hadn’t been _prepared_ for this, this quiet intimacy. At work, there was, well, _work_ , and even outside of that particular sphere, there was always a mutual friend dutifully acting the role of social buffer, be it Victoria or Alonzo or Cassandra. Misto hadn’t been ready for those supports to suddenly be gone and to be faced with the heady reality of being face to face, one on one.

Mistoffelees’ mind went back to Munk’s text, the impossibly small thing that had sent all of this into motion.

_You should come over. It’s been a while._

Reading it had brought forth a sweat on Misto’s palms, a dancing thrum in his chest, even when he thought it was an offer extended through simple friendship. But now—now Misto knew that Munk had meant something more, or at least, something else. Perhaps he wanted an end to this eternal dance they had found themselves stuck in, perhaps he was seeking to finally bridge the unending chasm that had split between them. And it was the notion of this, the idea that maybe Munk wanted him a little closer than an arm’s length away, that heartened Misto to push on.

Out of the corner of his eye, set against the side of the couch, Misto spied a gym bag. Sitting next to them was a pair of soft leather ballet slippers.

Misto took a deep breath through his nose. “Are you dancing again?” he asked quietly.

Munk didn’t often talk about his time as a principal dancer—it had been long before Mistoffelees had come into his life, before an injury had cut short a celebrated career, before Alonzo had assumed his duties in the company. Munk smiled through everything and it was easy to picture him smiling through the loss, through the defeat, through the farewell to something that he loved and that had defined and shaped him.

Munk hesitated for a moment, licking at his bottom lip as he often did when he was turning something over in his mind. For Misto, it was always incredibly distracting.

“I am,” he admitted at last, before quickly adding, “Nothing intensive, just—trying to get back to form.”

Misto nodded. “I think that’s wonderful.”

There was that boyish smile again, as Munk ran a hand through the gray that streaked his dark hair at the temples. “I’ve been working on something, actually,” he confessed. “Care to be my audience?”

A short trip up a locked staircase later, and the two of them were on the roof of Munk’s building, the hazy twilight softening the silhouettes of the structures and edifices around them, a gentle breeze cooling the warm night air.

“No room in my apartment, obviously,” said Munk by way of explanation, “and I’m not quite ready to return to the studio yet.”

“Of course,” replied Misto, dropping on to a large cushion that had been pulled to the ground from an abandoned patio chair by one of the roof’s previous visitors. As Munk pulled up the music on his phone, Misto settled in, leaning his back against the brick wall behind him, cool from spending the last few hours out of the heat of the sun. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Munk gave a nod. “It’s still a work in progress, so,” he reminded gently, as he paced a few easy circles about the roof. Was—was Munk nervous?

A few jazzy bars passed in the track, and then—Munk was moving, gliding. When they’d first met, in a brief fit of curiosity, Mistoffelees had dug up a few old videos of the former principal. He’d been amazing, of course, landing jumps and spinning out turns to wild applause. Demeter had even once divulged to Misto that there’d been _quite_ the drama when two wealthy patrons had fought over who would have the prestigious honor of supporting the one and only Munkustrap (it hadn’t mattered of course, as they’d both been easily outbid by the prestigious Lady Deutoronomy.)

But seeing Munk perform in person—really _experiencing_ his performance—was something else entirely. There was a lightness to Munk’s movements, an easy joy that emanated from every step, every lift, every saunter. The day-to-day weights and worries that Munk carried as the sort of unofficial leader of the Jellicles melted and rolled away from him, and Misto found himself wholly and thoroughly transfixed. There was an expressiveness to Munk’s movements as his lithe form moved through space, as if there were things he could only say with his body.

And then, the music finished and Misto found himself blinking away the stars in his eyes.

“That was—” Misto struggled for a proper descriptor. “Lovely,” he said at last, knowing it hardly encapsulated his admiration.

“Thank you,” said Munk demurely, his hands on his hips as he sought to catch his breath. Suddenly, he was holding his hand out to Misto. “Dance with me,” he suggested warmly.

Misto opened his mouth to protest. “Oh, I—I’m not—”

“Come on,” beckoned Munk, and there was such a softness in his eyes that Misto could hardly refuse.

When he’d left his apartment, Mistoffelees had certainly not expected to spend his evening alone with Munkustrap. And he certainly hadn’t expected that he would be on a rooftop, under a hazy pink sky, and in Munk’s arms.

“Do you know how to waltz?” asked Munk.

“It’s the little three-step one, right?”

Munk laughed, clearly charmed.

As they got into position, Misto reached for Munk’s waist, but the other man corrected his hand up to his shoulder. “Why don’t you let me lead?”

“O-okay,” stuttered Misto, his mouth suddenly very dry.

And then they were moving, lightly rising and falling in time to Munk’s humming. It should have been no surprise to Misto how easy it was to follow Munk along, responding to the faint pushes and pulls of his body as he guided the pair in gentle circles about the roof, like a wordless conversation. He realized that, even in all their time living together, they had never been this close, close enough to see the small crinkles at the corner of Munk’s eyes, close enough to smell the heady mix of his aftershave and detergent. It brought a flush to Misto’s cheeks.

With a flourish, Munk brought one of Misto’s hands above his head, gently spinning him in place before encircling him in his arms. Whatever “respectable” distance that had been left between them was now gone, their chests brushing against one another with each breath.

Misto wasn’t sure where the courage came from, or how he knew that Munk would never take that last step without the most express of permission. But the courage and knowledge came nonetheless, and with them his quiet plea.

“Kiss me?”

Munk met his gaze, his need surely mirrored in Misto’s eyes. And then the next moment, his lips were pressed against Mistoffelees’, soft and sweet and gentle and warm and all the other things that Misto had never realized that he hoped they might be.

It was Mistoffelees who, against every vibrating fiber of his being, broke their kiss first, gently balancing his forehead against Munk’s. 

“I didn’t want to move out,” he whispered.

“I know,” came the soft breath against Misto’s lips. “I didn’t want you to either.”

Misto stepped back, out of the embrace, out of the warmth. He needed his head clear for this conversation and Munk was, frankly, intoxicating. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” There was no venom in Mistoffelees’ tone, no accusation. It was only—if they were ever going to finally close this aperture, then certain things needed to be said.

Once again, Munkustrap was doing that _thing_ with his bottom lip as he considered his answer. “When I was still with the ballet, I was with someone, and then—I had my injury. And things changed—and not for the better.” He was smiling, but it was an impossibly sad smile and it broke Misto’s heart.

“I finally broke things off, but it changed me. And I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to be that— _vulnerable_ with anyone again. And then,” and his eyes finally met Misto’s, “you came along.”

Cautiously, Munk took a step towards him.

“I just wasn’t sure if I was ready yet. But I think,” and again, he offered his hand out to Misto. “I am now.”

It was all Mistoffelees needed to hear. Surging back into Munk’s arms, Misto encircled his wrists around his neck, drawing Munk into a deep kiss. It was all need, driven relentlessly forward by the longing he had so desperately harbored for this man for so long. Munk pulled him close, their bodies meeting in an arduous clash, aching for contact.

Misto’s hands slipped beneath the soft fabric of Munk’s tank, fingertips climbing along the warmth of his skin, sleek with sweat from the physical exertion, muscles taut. He traced every sculpted line, every curved arch, wanting to learn it all now that this terrible gulf between them had finally been bridged. Munk gripped at Misto’s hips, the sensation sending a shiver of desire up his spine.

After so much time spent burying his feelings of want, shoving them to the furthest corners of himself, to finally experience this intimate closeness made Misto’s heart hammer furiously inside his chest. It was impossible to caress enough of Munk’s skin, to taste enough of him as he bit at his lower lip. And to know that Mistoffelees’ desire was reciprocated, that he too was wanted by the object of his affection, it only served to heighten his heady feeling of arousal.

And then, Misto felt Munk hook a finger in the waistband of his jeans, walking him over to the patio cushion he had previously occupied as a rapt audience to Munk’s performance. Misto dropped to his knees upon it, stretching out a hand to grip at the brick wall he now faced, while Munk fell in behind him, pulling their bodies against one another in a taut line.

As Munk’s hips pressed at him from behind, Misto felt his hardness and it made desire coil deep in Misto’s stomach. He gasped for air, Munk’s own heavy breathing hot on his ear. His hand traveled up under the fabric of Misto’s shirt, fingertips stroking over his pale skin, flushed pink under Munk’s touch.

Misto swallowed tightly. “P-please,” he whispered hoarsely, hoping his partner would understand his plea, too embarrassed to put his need to words, but knowing that Munk needed to be asked.

Munk’s fingers found the button to Misto’s fly, and a breathy sigh escaped him, eager for the relief that Munk’s touch would bring. Munk pulled at the zipper with an almost teasing deliberation and Misto briefly wondered if it was possible to die solely from pent-up sexual frustration.

At last, Munk freed Misto’s hips from his jeans, causing Misto to shudder in expectation. “Is this alright?” Munk’s voice was a heavy murmur against his ear, and Misto eagerly nodded his consent. A hiss exhaled from Misto’s lips as Munk made featherlight strokes along the taut fabric of his underwear before finally slipping past his waistband. His hips gave an involuntary buck at Munk’s touch and Misto tightened his grip on the wall, the brick rough beneath his hand.

Munk stroked at his length, slow at first, attempting to ease Misto ever so gently towards release. Misto, for his part, tried his best to keep his breath even, a simple task that grew ever more difficult with each pump of Munk’s hand. He’d certainly not expected to wind up with Munk alone, nor had he expected to dance with him, to _kiss_ him, to be touched by him. So many desires Misto had kept hidden in his heart, afraid to want after things that could never be. But here they were, together at last.

Misto inelegantly thrust his hips, attempting to match the pace of Munk’s ministrations, his speed quickening. Pleasure built within him, that sweet sensation spreading down his thighs. As his peak neared, Misto sought to steady himself, reaching one hand behind him, finding purchase with his fingers in Munk’s hair. And then at last, the wave of climax crested over Misto, a single cry escaping him.

With gentle care, Munk eased Misto down, wrapping his arms around him as Misto blinked back to his senses. He slumped against Munk, losing his hold in the other man’s hair. Breath came easier now that his heart was no longer hammering in his chest.

When he had regained himself, Misto shifted, turning on the old cushion to face Munk. He felt he ought to say something, express something, but no suitable words came to mind. In truth, _no_ words really came to his mind, just a swell of emotions: warmth, solace, desire, completion. It, coupled with the sweet tenderness so perfectly reflected in the dark depths of Munk’s normally inscrutable eyes, was easily threatening to overwhelm him. Feeling unbidden tears forming at the edge of his eyes, Misto threw his arms around Munk’s neck, burying his face in the gentle slope of his shoulder.

“Are you crying?” asked Munk softly, his own arms coming up to wrap themselves around Misto.

“ _No_ ,” came Misto’s muffled reply. And then after a beat, “Maybe. It’s just—nice. To finally be like this. With you.” 

He felt Munk’s arms tighten around him. “Sorry it took us so long to get here.”

Misto straightened, swiping at the wetness around his eyes. “It’s okay,” he offered, not wanting to look into Munk’s eyes again, for fear of his tears’ return.

But Munk, of course, wouldn’t allow it. Turning Misto’s chin up with his finger, their gazes met. While the intimacy of it was immense, Misto realized there was something special about seen—like, _really_ seen—by Munk. A flush again came to Misto’s cheeks as Munk ran his thumb over Misto’s lower lip, before pressing a kiss to it.

Hesitantly, Misto’s hands reached for the button to Munk’s fly, but Munk gently caught him by the wrist, rubbing circles on Misto’s palm to ease the suddenness of the gesture.

“Why don’t we go back downstairs?”

Misto nodded eagerly, the flush on his cheeks deepening.

* * *

The next morning, Mistoffelees awoke in a state of mild confusion. He was in Munkustrap’s apartment, but why wasn’t he in the guest room? Why was he in Munk’s bed—?

_Oh. Right._

Heaving a heavy exhale, he pushed his fingers through his dark curls. Yes, that had happened. ...Right? It hadn’t just been an extremely vivid dream? A manifestation of pent up energies?

Misto opened his eyes, but there was no Munk to be found, only a hollow spot in the pillow next to him. Looking over at the night stand, he spied his phone—graciously plugged in—and under it, a folded piece of paper. Misto scooted across the bed to retrieve it.

_Sorry, had to run an errand for Old Deut. Be back soon. Help yourself to anything, you know where it all is._

And then, at the bottom, a little heart with an ‘M.’ Good god, Munk had drawn a _heart_ —

But then, there was a noise out in the apartment. Perhaps Munk was back already? Eyeing the veritable explosion of clothing on the floor—further evidence that the events of the previous evening had _absolutely_ occurred—Misto scooped up his t-shirt and boxers, before shrugging into them and opening the bedroom door. Only, it wasn’t Munk he found.

“Good morning,” smiled Victoria.

_Right_ . Victoria lived here. That was a fact that Mistoffelees had definitely remembered and was suddenly _very_ glad that he had bothered to find some clothing.

“H-hey,” replied Misto, struggling to keep the redness from his face.

“Want some tea?” she offered kindly. She was seated at the breakfast bar, her phone in one hand and a mug in the other. But at Misto’s eager nod of acceptance, she set both down, hopping off her barstool to move into the kitchen.

“Looks like things went well for you last night,” she commented brightly, busying herself with the kettle as Misto slid into his seat. “How long has all… _that_ been going on for?”

“Um,” Misto hesitated, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Just over 12 hours?”

Victoria laughed, leaning against the counter, her arms folded. She was wearing a sweatshirt so oversized that it had practically become a dress, the neck of it sliding off one shoulder.

“Took you long enough, but,” and her face softened. “Good for you. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” replied Misto quietly, gripping the edge of the bar for lack of something to fidget with. He was silent for a moment, until a terrible thought dawned on him. “You didn’t—like, when you came in—we weren’t—”

Another laugh. “No, no—I had a bit of a late night. It was, ah, all quiet upon my return,” she assured him with a little salute.

Misto heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “So. You and Teazer, huh?”

“Yeah. How pissed was Munk?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Misto shrugged. “He took it pretty well. I think he had, ah, other things on his mind,” he added, giving a little nervous laugh. “So, um, how long has all… _that_ been going on?”

“It’s new,” replied Victoria, another smile blossoming across her face, though a different sort of smile, a private one. “But it’s nice.”

“Good,” said Misto genuinely. “I’m glad.”

And suddenly, there was the sound of keys in the door, followed closely by the appearance of Munkustrap, carrying a brown paper bag, lightly spotted with food grease.

“Hey, you two,” he greeted them both warmly as he slid off his sneakers and padded over to the kitchen.

“Hi,” trilled Victoria lightly, waggling her fingers from beneath the cuff of her sweatshirt.

“Sorry for dashing off, but I brought breakfast,” he said by way of apology, depositing the bag on the counter before snaking an arm around Misto’s waist and pressing a kiss to his temple. Immediately, a bright blush flared on Misto’s cheeks.

Again, Victoria laughed, clasping her hands together. “Oh, this is going to be _delightful_.”


End file.
